


The Alchemist's Apprentice

by nereidee (aurasama)



Category: Amnesia: The Dark Descent, Demento | Haunting Ground
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25972486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurasama/pseuds/nereidee
Summary: "She smiles all the way to her eyes and for a heartbeat something about it tugs at Daniel's heartstrings in its familiarity. How can anything so warm strike such fear into your heart, Daniel wonders. He thinks he sees iron resolve in the smile that she gives him. He remembers this feeling, this trepidation, and the face that wore this smile before her."Daniel may have escaped Alexander and Brennenburg into the waiting arms of Fiona, the young mistress of Belli Castle and an aspiring alchemist, only to realise he's never left his purgatory after all. Set after the events of both games.
Relationships: Fiona Belli/Daniel (Amnesia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Start Reading





	The Alchemist's Apprentice

“You're very quiet today. Is something the matter?”  
  
Daniel starts and looks up from his dinner. Fiona is looking at him imploringly across the table and he hitches a small smile on his face.  
  
“Oh, it's nothing. I was just lost in thought,” he says.  
  
“What were you thinking about?”  
  
“Well, it's been quite some time since I arrived, hasn't it?”  
  
“Almost three months to a date,” Fiona replies.  
  
“That long already? It feels like it's only been a few weeks.”  
  
She traces the rim of her glass with a finger, thoughtful. “It would feel that way to you. You were barely conscious the first few weeks, remember?”  
  
He does. Bits and pieces come to him in flashes, nothing more. The sound of the earth itself screeching and rock grinding against rock as Brennenburg collapses around him. This is the moment that he at last accepts the inevitable; he's going to die, just like he was supposed to, ever since he picked up the Orb all those months ago. Alexander, the Shadow, everything fades away until there's nothing but darkness, darkness and pain.  
  
Pain, horrible pain and death. Nothing less than what he deserves. He dies suffocating on dust and the lack of oxygen and never expects to open his eyes again.  
  
Except he does.  
  
“Hey! Hey, can you hear me?”  
  
Someone touches his face and calls to him. He doesn't have a voice to answer. When he opens his eyes he sees heavy clouds swirling above and against it a pale, shining creature. So bright against the darkened skies that he can only stare at her. So the Lord would send his angels even for a sinner's soul.  
  
Rain starts to fall, hard and heavy, and someone lifts him up. He feels every inch of him ache as the angels bear him into the heavenly palace and all goes white.  
  
Next time he comes to, he feels more comfortable and safe than he ever recalls feeling. It's warm. Someone is talking quietly. A soft, tender voice. His eyes flutter open and finds the angel from before sitting by his bedside.  
  
“You're finally awake,” she says. “How do you feel?”  
  
Daniel doesn't know how long he stares at her. His lips try to move, but he can't seem to make a sound. His throat hurts. Everything hurt. He looks down at his hands and realises he's bandaged all the way up to his elbows. He tries to lift his arm but it just flops back on the bed, boneless.  
  
“Don't try to move yet. You're badly hurt.”  
  
He only nods in response. The motion is enough to make him feel sick and he shuts his eyes, drifting back to sleep almost immediately.  
  
Of the first weeks he has little recollection. She's often sitting by his bed when he comes to, but not always. Others exchange his sheets and bring him food, mute, expressionless individuals that would remind him of Alexander's servants if they didn't look so obviously human. Pale, discoloured individuals who act as though they do not hear him when he tries to speak with them, so he eventually stops trying. When he's finally able to stay awake for longer than an hour, she comes to him.  
  
She's not an angel, he realises, and this is not heaven. The room he's in is grandiose – marble floors, impossibly tall windows and expensive rugs – and rivals everything he saw in Brennenburg. She looks like she belongs here, this young woman in a foreign-looking dress, and he's not surprised when she introduces herself.  
  
“I'm Fiona Belli, the mistress of Belli Castle, my home.”  
  
“Daniel,” he replies. “Just Daniel.”  
  
They talk, or rather, Fiona asks questions and he answers. Then they swap parts and he asks the most pressing questions in his head; where is this.  
  
Where, and most importantly, when. Just thinking about it makes his head hurt.  
  
He slumps back on the pillows, trembling from head to toe. This is not Prussia. This is not 1839. Fiona has to repeat the answer to him many times before it finally sinks in and registers in his brain. Even then Daniel only fully accepts it when he's able to walk and see the next rooms himself. Machines and contraptions unlike he's ever seen or dreamed of before. Fiona's clothes are not foreign, he realises; it's his that are old-fashioned. The garments she brings him vaguely resemble what he's used to wearing, and it takes him some time to get used to wearing them.  
  
Fiona refills his glass with wine and shakes him out of his reverie. She looks so regal even today in all white that for a moment he forgets he does not belong. That he's not home.  
  
“There's no need,” he protests, but Fiona fixes a glance at him that makes the words die on his lips.  
  
“You look like you could use another drink. Please, drink and relax.”  
  
He wants to tell her that it's not becoming of her, servitude. That hers shouldn't be the hands that tend to such measly needs. That she has her servants for tasks that are below her status. Yet tonight they dine in privacy, without a single servant in the room, and Daniel feels both relieved and more nervous than he has in months. He accepts the drink with a smile, however, and downs the glass in one. The tangy taste lingers in his throat afterwards. It could be poison for all he knows.  
  
He hopes it is.  
  
“That's a little better,” he mutters. Fiona doesn't smile.  
  
“You've seemed down these past days,” she says. She leaves out the fact that he's seemed down ever since they met, that it has worsened when the full scope of his predicament dawned on him. “It worries me.”  
  
“Wine is as a good medicine for a heavy heart as any.”  
  
She pours the remaining wine in her glass and drinks slowly. It's one of her favourite years, but tonight it tastes sour to her. “I know you're homesick.”  
  
He doesn't even have the energy to deny it. He turns his attention back on his plate, but his appetite is gone. Long minutes pass until Fiona sighs.  
  
“What is it, miss?” Daniel asks.  
  
She doesn't answer immediately. It's not just him. Something's been weighting on her mind, too, ever since she found Daniel wounded in the garden. She sets down her utensils and gets up, the decision made. She hasn't been frank with him, nor has he been frank with her.  
  
“I'd like to show you something if you've finished your meal,” Fiona says. “Could you come with me?”  
  
“Certainly.”  
  
If he's startled, he doesn't let it show on his face. She holds out the door to him and their eyes meet momentarily as he steps past her. There's a searching look on her face, one that Daniel doesn't understand, and he follows her through the darkened hallways with leaden feet. He feels heavier with each step, a sense of foreboding growing stronger the further they go. It's been there for weeks, months. Ever since he broke down in front of her for the first time and told her everything.  
  
Fiona unlocks a heavy oak door for them and Daniel feels how the air changes as he steps over the threshold. They pass through the greenhouses, the courtyard, the library, to an older part of the castle where the walls are covered with mirrors and illustrations that he's never seen before, but that overwhelm him in their familiarity. Astronomical charts, drawings of human anatomy, portraits of men he's never seen before. His catches glimpses of the name plaques beneath them and on one his feet falter momentarily. Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa. The one next to him is titled Johann Weyer.  
  
“Daniel?” Fiona says. He realises he's come to a halt.  
  
“It's nothing.” He manages to wrench his gaze away from the portrait and continues after Fiona. He wonders if she has a portrait of Alexander somewhere in these halls. If she does, she doesn't take him by that route tonight.  
  
Finally, the corridor leads to a staircase and they descend in silence. Fiona feels his eyes on her shoulder where the birth mark is just barely visible underneath the strap of her dress, but he doesn't say anything though she knows he's seen it.  
  
“Where are we going?” he asks out of courtesy.  
  
“To my study, for the lack of a better word.” She pauses. “I don't think I've shown you my work yet.”  
  
There is a plain door at the bottom of the stairs that she holds out to him. It's pitch-dark, but he steps in regardless. She follows suit and lights flicker into being as though responding to her presence.  
  
His jaw clenches as he looks around the room. Tools line the walls, glimmering dully in the candlelight. He can name each of them at a glance. Sharp and blunt, steel and leather. He almost wants to laugh when he finds the rusty old iron maiden at the far corner and instantly feels disgusted with himself.  
  
There is a stained stone table and potions in their vials upon it. A heavy chair sits in the middle of the room, facing a tool cabinet.   
  
He walks around the room, eyes pausing on every tool as though committing them to memory, confirming that they're there. Manacles. Saw. Knives, daggers, a rusty sword. Hammers and needles. All so pristinely clean that he can tell the owner clearly takes good care of her belongings.  
  
Something shifts in his chest; clenches then unclenches. His heart beats a little faster. He knows this feeling.  
  
Fiona's bare feet make hardly a sound as she walks in a slow circle around him. Daniel's eyes follow her, breathing in every movement in the air between them. Light dances on her skin as she moves. Hair ripples over her shoulder and reveals the birth mark before it's concealed from view once more.  
  
“Sit, please,” Fiona says and indicates the chair. Daniel obeys. Her tone is kind, but he recognises an order when he hears one.  
  
There are leather belts fixed to the chair's arms and legs. Daniel knows what it's used for. He can feel it at the pit of his stomach and in the tension of his joints as his hands ball into fists. His fingers are restless. It's in his muscle memory, this, and his hands want to obey, to heed the call.  
  
Fiona's hand touches his shoulder, brushing back his hair, then retreats. “How much do you know about Azoth? Did the baron tell you about it?”  
  
“I can't recall hearing the word before, I'm afraid.”  
  
“I remember you told me about what he made you do.”  
  
Daniel swallows. The memory twists something in his gut. “The rituals. Yes.”  
  
“What was it that you called it, this essence he wanted you to harvest?”  
  
“Vitae.”  
  
“The essence of life,” she says softly. She places a hand on her abdomen thoughtfully. “Lorenzo and his homunculi called it by another name. Azoth.”  
  
Fiona is quiet for a long time, and in her head she remembers the maid's words though it has been years since she heard them. _Azoth. The essence of life, of a woman._ It doesn't stir anxiety in her any more as it once used to. If she concentrates she thinks she can almost feel it in her blood, though she knows it's impossible.  
  
She steps in front of Daniel and touches his chin. He looks up, tilting back his head reflexively, and she wants to smile. How endearing that he flinches at her every move, that he watches her with bated breath like a dog awaiting its master's word, eager to prove its obedience. There's trepidation in his eyes, trepidation that softens as Fiona leans in.  
  
“Do you know who I am, Daniel?” she asks and withdraws her hand. His eyes follow it the entire way before flitting back to her eyes again.  
  
“Miss?”  
  
She smiles. His expression falters and colour floods his face.  
  
“You… you saved me. You're the mistress of Belli Castle.”  
  
“You know that's not all. Please be honest with me.”  
  
He swallows again. His tongue feels like it's made of lead for how heavily it sits in his mouth. “You are the heir of Aureolus Belli. I saw it. The mark on your back.”  
  
She sighs wearily.  
  
“I thought you might recognise it. Baron Alexander von Brennenburg was an alchemist, too, after all. His name was mentioned in many of Lorenzo's books as an exceptional pioneer in the field. It seems he revered the baron's research.”  
  
Daniel feels something tighten around his windpipe, squeezing so that his eyes water. Alexander's name sounds wrong in Fiona's voice, every syllable too wretched and too sharp for her lips, yet she speaks it casually, without judgement or passion.  
  
“Aureolus Belli was my ancestor. I'm Aureolus Fiona Belli,” Fiona continues. “I still don't know much about him or his work. It's funny, isn't it? I bear his mark, like all his descendants do, but I know nearly nothing about him.” She reaches for her shoulder instinctively, touching the birth mark absent-mindedly. “I say descendants, but I think Lorenzo called us reincarnations. Who knows if it's true. He perished before I could find out more.”  
  
“Perished?”  
  
“Died.”  
  
Fiona's voice is too flat, too cold, so unlike her, that Daniel asks before thinking, “how did he die?”  
  
“There was a fire.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“I don't suppose it was an accident?”  
  
“No, I suppose it wasn't. He would never have allowed me to leave otherwise, you know. He wanted to keep me imprisoned here for his own purposes, as he did with the others. I escaped.”  
  
“Why did you come back? It must be very painful for you to live here.”  
  
She shakes her head. “Elsewhere was worse. After what I went through here, what I learned, I just couldn't settle down anywhere. I didn't feel safe, and with my parents gone, I was all alone. I felt like I didn't belong with normal people.” She breathes in slowly, her hands balling into fists, then relaxing again. “After a while I couldn't take it any more and came back. And I stayed, because this is the only place on earth that holds the answers I need. Lorenzo's research, Azoth, my heritage, everything, it's all here.”  
  
Daniel finds he can't look away from her. Her eyes are a thousand years old when they meet his, and it holds him spellbound.  
  
“You know I can't let you leave, right?” she says quietly. Daniel shudders at her tone.  
  
There is sadness in the look she fixes him, and, before he can stop himself, pity mingles with his dread. He inclines his head in understanding, and Fiona sighs again. She walks past him, to the door. Daniel knows he should get up. He should stop her, brush her aside and leave the room, yet he doesn't even make the attempt to move. The door clicks with horrible finality, and then Fiona's hands brushes against his shoulder once more as she returns to him.  
  
“If you were baron Alexander's apprentice, then you know my secrets. You know who – and what – I am.” Her breath is warm against his ear. “It's too dangerous to let you go. Please understand.”  
  
“I do, miss Belli.”  
  
“Just call me Fiona.”  
  
“Fiona.”  
  
She hums, and Daniel pictures the smile he knows she wears now. The mere thought of it is overwhelming.  
  
“I like you, Daniel. I like you a lot,” she says quietly, right by his ear. “I really do. Think of yourself as my guest. I’ll make sure you’ll be happy here.”  
  
He doesn’t need to force himself to imagine it. Happy, yes, what man wouldn’t be happy as her guest? He’ll be safe. He’ll be cared for. He can forget the past and start anew by her grace. He nods and the words tumble out of his mouth in a rush, “I am happy to accompany you already. Please, let me stay.”  
  
“Gladly.” Her hands are warm against his shoulders. He breathes in her scent as she reaches for the belts. “I’d like to test something. May I tie you up?”  
  
A command poised as a question, he thinks. As if it’s necessary. Excitement, the sort that he hasn’t experienced since Brennenburg, bubbles at the pit of his stomach. There is genuine eagerness in his voice when says, “please.”  
  
Her hands are gentle but firm as they tighten the belts around his arms and wrists, and Daniel's breath catches in his throat at the lightest whisper of her touch. It does little more than tickle through his shirt, yet he shudders instinctively.  
  
Fiona pauses, just for a second, and Daniel thinks she almost looks as though she's biting back a laugh.  
  
“You've done this before,” she says. It's not a question.  
  
Daniel wets his lips, and he doesn't find his voice to reply immediately. The leather strains against his arms as he shifts, and its touch, its sound makes his pulse quicken.  
  
“Yes. Yes, I have.”  
  
At this her eyes soften, creasing momentarily. She runs her hand over the curve of his arm and stops over the belt buckle. The metal rings softly as she teases it with a nail, as though considering something.  
  
“Tighter?”  
  
How soft her voice is, even with such a question.  
  
“Yes, please,” Daniel answers. He whimpers, quiet and shameful as the leather digs more tightly into his arm. Fiona. He would have thought her hand more suited for velvet and silk, but she handles the leather with ease nonetheless. It yields under her touch and so does Daniel, his teeth clamping into his lower lip to bite back any sounds of pain that his treacherous mouth wants to let loose.  
  
He’s already hard. Fiona circles slowly to the cabinet where tools have been laid out for her. Her hand pauses over a short riding crop and Daniel shudders instinctively with anticipation. He remembers, oh, how he remembers the crop’s touch as if it’s ingrained into him now.  
  
He wants it.  
  
He wants her hand to be the one to do it.  
  
Fiona sees the look on his face and this time she does smile. She holds up the crop against her bosom tenderly with both hands like it’s something precious, like an angel of the Lord come down to deal her judgment with a blade of fire in hand. The dress billows around her legs as she walks towards him.  
  
His chest rises and falls heavily while he waits, and at last Fiona obliges. She touches his chin with the crop's leather tongue, considering where to start, and Daniel’s eyes slip closed. She drags the leather tongue down his neck in one fluid motion, making him shudder, before trailing lower, lower. Daniel bites into his cheek as the crop touches his belly, but cannot hold in the hushed whimper that leaves his throat.  
  
“Spread your legs,” Fiona says and he obeys instantly. She’s still smiling as she tickles the underside of his thigh with the crop and then none-too-gently flicks it against his thigh. Daniel jolts as if struck by lighting and whimpers again. She repeats the motion on the other leg.  
  
He’s delightful, Fiona thinks, delightful and altogether too lovely in his desire to please. How he struggles to breathe between the strikes, mouth wide open and eyes closed to shut out all else, yet he doesn’t ask her to stop or beg her to slow down. He must’ve made a good apprentice. The thought that another hand than hers has molded him into what he is saddens her; the marks it has left on him are everywhere. She yearns to cover them up with marks of her own.  
  
When she puts down the crop he’s badly out of breath and there’s a deep flush on his face.  
  
“You're brave. You did so well,” she compliments. His eyes flutter open and she doesn’t miss the adoring look in them. She bends down and kisses him full on the mouth, which he returns with unmistakeable urgency.  
  
There are many things Fiona would love to do to him.  
  
All in a good time. Better savour it, one victory at a time. Time, yes, she has all the time in the world – and so does he, if she plays her cards right. She's Aureolus Belli. The Great Work is in her blood.  
  
Daniel looks startled when she starts undoing the belts.  
  
“Fiona?”  
  
“It's all right,” she says, releasing his arms. “We're not done yet. Stay still.”  
  
She blindfolds him, picks up the crop in one hand and takes Daniel's hand in the other. “Come with me.”  
  
He does. She leads him through the corridors and halls, and her servants stare mutely at their passage before turning back to their mindless chores. Daniel doesn't know where Fiona's taking them, but he can feel that they're not alone. He's seen the servants, he knows what they are. They used to unnerve him in the same way that Alexander's once did, but there's no place in his mind for anything else but Fiona.  
  
They come to a halt and Fiona lets go of his hand. He hears a door close behind himself, and then Fiona takes off the blindfold. They are in a large bedroom with tall windows, furnished with furniture that look like antiques. He can just make out the balcony that leads to the castle's garden right outside the windows.  
  
Fiona rounds him and touches his cheek, and they kiss again. She kisses him gently, slowly, over and over again 'till he's breathless once more. Daniel struggles to keep his hands clasped behind his back, though every thought in his brain is screaming to pick her up and carry her on the bed. He has given her license to touch him; she has not given one to him.  
  
“Good boy,” Fiona murmurs against his lips. His self-restraint is impressive, even when she purposely leans into him and feels how aroused he is. “You're so patient. But I won't keep you waiting much longer, I promise.”  
  
“What do you want me to do next?”  
  
Her lips curl. “Please undress and get on the bed. On your belly.”  
  
He's bright red in the face and cannot quite meet her eye, but does as he's told. He feels extremely self-conscious, laying facedown on her pristinely made bed. Fiona takes her time to observe him. There are scars all over his back, some faded, some fresh and pinkish. She touches his backside with the crop and watches how he quivers at it. One gentle flick to his thigh, one to his bottom, yet he presses up to the touches reflexively, and Fiona thinks it's the most endearing sight in ages.  
  
“We'll start with ten,” she says. Daniel nods into the pillow.  
  
He jolts at every strike and muffles his whimpers in the pillows. She keeps the touches light, hardly enough to do more than sting, but his skin reddens all the same. When she’s done she lets him catch his breath, and after some minutes he pleads, “please, more.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
He nods. “Please. Harder.”  
  
She obliges.  
  
He cries out with each strike, his entire body jolting forwards. Daniel tries to count the lashes, but his thoughts run away like water from cupped hands. All he knows is the pain, and every time it spikes his mind grows emptier and lighter. Pain; it crawls up his spine and breathes life into him. Pain; it draws out the poison from his thoughts minute by minute.  
  
His breathing is erratic and the light-headedness it brings is bliss, bliss. On and on it goes. His skin is raw and he relishes it, asking for more, always more, until he forgets the words and can do no more than cry.  
  
Fiona’s arm is aching when she finally sets the crop down, and she listens to his accelerated breathing quietly. Thirty or so lashes, she counted. Daniel never asked her to stop, and she’s quite sure he’d let her keep going if only she so wanted.  
  
“Are you all right, Daniel?”  
  
He nods.  
  
“Good. Please turn over.”  
  
She reaches behind herself and starts to unzip her dress. Daniel watches her with bated breath as she lets the dress fall on the floor, soon followed by her underwear. She can't help but savour the sight of him splayed on her sheets, naked and hard. Gorgeous in every way. His breath catches in his throat as she climbs on the bed.  
  
“Fiona,” he breathes when she straddles him.   
  
“Shh.”  
  
She bites back a moan as he slips inside her, and at once his hands are on her hips, holding her steady. She lets him touch her, despite never giving the permission. How quickly he comes undone beneath her, a shuddering, shaking mess. His hands will surely leave marks on her hips, as surely as she's left her marks on him.  
  
Their eyes meet just once and she smiles at how he's hers, utterly, totally, irrevocably hers. Whatever, whoever came before is erased from him one strike, one moment at a time.  
  
He knows it, too. He gives it to her, his every fear, his whole-hearted submission, and accepts what he's given in return.  
  
“You'll be my apprentice,” Fiona whispers. “I'll teach you all I know. Together we'll complete the Great Work.”  
  
“Yes, mistress, please, anything—”  
  
She smiles all the way to her eyes and for a heartbeat something about it tugs at Daniel's heartstrings in its familiarity. How can anything so warm strike such fear into your heart, Daniel wonders. He thinks he sees iron resolve in the smile that she gives him. He remembers this feeling, this trepidation, and the face that wore this smile before her.  
  
It makes him think of blood and rope burns just as he comes.  
  
“You did well, Daniel,” she breathes and kisses his gasping lips.  
  
If there are angels, they won't come for him. Daniel sees it spreading ahead of himself; the way of pain that he never left. And he knows without knowing how he knows that it'll all happen again, over and over just as it did before, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.  
  
So this is my purgatory. He returns her kisses and accepts it.  
  
He'll do anything, if it's for her. Anything, anything, anything, as long as it's her.


End file.
